Mr. Stanley poured wine. Her fingers closed upon it instinctively. She sat drawn together in her chair in the corner of the box, at a loss what to say or do—afraid, curious, perplexed. “Think how dumb we find ourselves and stifled! I know we seem to have a sort of freedom. “Oh, Lord!” she said, discovering what she was up to, and dropped lightly from the fence upon the turf and went on her way toward the crest. “It would have been rash and unwise,” she said at the end of a meditation.
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